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BEAUTY:
AN ODE.
Who hath not, kneeling at thy shrine,
Vow'd fealty and duty,
Own'd thy mild power and sway divine,
O never-dying Beauty!
That shrine still wears fair woman's form,
Still garlanded with blushes warm,
Still lighted by her eye;
But different form and different face,
Varying in tint, in shape, and grace,
Rules under every sky.
Vow'd fealty and duty,
Own'd thy mild power and sway divine,
O never-dying Beauty!
That shrine still wears fair woman's form,
Still garlanded with blushes warm,
Still lighted by her eye;
But different form and different face,
Varying in tint, in shape, and grace,
Rules under every sky.
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Nor breathes there one who knows to tell
Where most the Goddess loves to dwell:
In Indian girl, in Negro maid,
In the fair flower of Northern shade,
Men trace the varying spell.
Where is bright Beauty's witching zone?
All nations claim it for their own,
And deem that in their land alone,
Is Beauty's coral cell.
Where most the Goddess loves to dwell:
In Indian girl, in Negro maid,
In the fair flower of Northern shade,
Men trace the varying spell.
Where is bright Beauty's witching zone?
All nations claim it for their own,
And deem that in their land alone,
Is Beauty's coral cell.
The artist views Her in that piece,
Which might immortalize thee, Greece!
Had Time, destroying all thy glory,
Left only that to tell thy story;
The lover in his mistress' eye,
The poet in his fantasy:
'Tis now the magic of the face,
'Tis now the form's surpassing grace;
'Tis now a glance, bright, kind, and clear,
'Tis now a smile, and now a tear;
And shrouded oft by Fancy's veil,
From melody her spells arise;
As blind men deem the nightingale
The fairest bird that flies.
Which might immortalize thee, Greece!
Had Time, destroying all thy glory,
Left only that to tell thy story;
The lover in his mistress' eye,
The poet in his fantasy:
'Tis now the magic of the face,
'Tis now the form's surpassing grace;
'Tis now a glance, bright, kind, and clear,
'Tis now a smile, and now a tear;
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From melody her spells arise;
As blind men deem the nightingale
The fairest bird that flies.
Doth she not dwell in yon bright maid
With tresses like the raven's wing;
Whose cheeks might bid the roses fade,
To mark their brilliant coloring?
With towering form erect and high,
With head uprais'd and lifted eye,
She treads in unblench'd majesty;
She treads, nor looks upon the earth,
But that dark eye's commanding ray
Calls every man of mortal birth,
To bow to Beauty's sway.
O lovely in her very pride,
As calm, as pure, as dignified,
As the chaste Orb that rules the night,
Extinguishing each planet light,
She passes on her way.
With tresses like the raven's wing;
Whose cheeks might bid the roses fade,
To mark their brilliant coloring?
With towering form erect and high,
With head uprais'd and lifted eye,
She treads in unblench'd majesty;
She treads, nor looks upon the earth,
But that dark eye's commanding ray
Calls every man of mortal birth,
To bow to Beauty's sway.
O lovely in her very pride,
As calm, as pure, as dignified,
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Extinguishing each planet light,
She passes on her way.
Doth she not dwell in yonder form
That seems inskied and sainted?
Th' Anemone, fair child of storm,
Less delicately painted!
Her form is of such airy lightness,
That, but for its celestial brightness,
'Twould seem a shadow resting:
Her neck of such a dazzling whiteness,
As swans the rude stream breasting;
Whilst her fair cheek's effulgent blush
Seems like the evening's rosy flush,
On Alpine snows reflected;
And the bright tresses of her hair,
Like sunbeams round her forehead fair,
By the light gale directed,
Form round her face a glory proud,
And play around that mild blue eye,
Like fragment of the noon-day sky,
Seen through a fleecy cloud.
That seems inskied and sainted?
Th' Anemone, fair child of storm,
Less delicately painted!
Her form is of such airy lightness,
That, but for its celestial brightness,
'Twould seem a shadow resting:
Her neck of such a dazzling whiteness,
As swans the rude stream breasting;
Whilst her fair cheek's effulgent blush
Seems like the evening's rosy flush,
On Alpine snows reflected;
And the bright tresses of her hair,
Like sunbeams round her forehead fair,
By the light gale directed,
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And play around that mild blue eye,
Like fragment of the noon-day sky,
Seen through a fleecy cloud.
See'st thou yon girl quick dancing by,
Chacing the painted butterfly,
Unconscious of her power;
Little she recks of lover's sigh,
But sports away the hour.
Dwells Beauty in that frolic grace,
That airy bound, that playful race;
In look now saucy, and now meek;
In modesty's soft blushing cheek;
Now graceful woman, coy and mild,
Now all that charms us in the child?
Her hazle eye, unfix'd and bright,
Dazzles with ever-changing light,
Like flames toss'd by the wind;
Now swimming in quick-passing sadness,
Now laughing in her soul's pure gladness,
The mirror of her mind:
Her lips,—the smiles those lips that curl
Twin cherries seem to sever;
And those two rows of living pearl
Has Ceylon rival'd never.
She shakes her head, to clear the hair
That clusters o'er her brow so fair;
And the quick motion wakes the grace
That dimples o'er that playful face;
Her lightning glance, her blush, her smile,
Would force old age to gaze awhile,
Would misery's sigh repress:
None can define the witching spell;
If it be Beauty none can tell;
All feel 'tis loveliness.—
And what is Beauty but the power
To steal the soul away?
And what so fair as Beauty's flower,
Lit, Genius, by thy ray?
Chacing the painted butterfly,
Unconscious of her power;
Little she recks of lover's sigh,
But sports away the hour.
Dwells Beauty in that frolic grace,
That airy bound, that playful race;
In look now saucy, and now meek;
In modesty's soft blushing cheek;
Now graceful woman, coy and mild,
Now all that charms us in the child?
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Dazzles with ever-changing light,
Like flames toss'd by the wind;
Now swimming in quick-passing sadness,
Now laughing in her soul's pure gladness,
The mirror of her mind:
Her lips,—the smiles those lips that curl
Twin cherries seem to sever;
And those two rows of living pearl
Has Ceylon rival'd never.
She shakes her head, to clear the hair
That clusters o'er her brow so fair;
And the quick motion wakes the grace
That dimples o'er that playful face;
Her lightning glance, her blush, her smile,
Would force old age to gaze awhile,
Would misery's sigh repress:
None can define the witching spell;
If it be Beauty none can tell;
All feel 'tis loveliness.—
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To steal the soul away?
And what so fair as Beauty's flower,
Lit, Genius, by thy ray?
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